Ghastly Grim
by Robottko
Summary: My take on the 30 day Monster Boy challenge. Each day, a new monster in the Sherlock universe, including Merlock, OctoJohn, and and pretty much any monster you can think of. Some chapters will be more risque than others, so pay attention to the rating at the top of each one-shot page. Johnlock.
1. My Soul to Keep

**This work is a conglomeration of the 30 day Monster boy challenge, which can be found on Tumblr. Each chapter is a little one-shot, a different monster every day, just to celebrate the fantastic month of October! I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Day 1: Demon

**My Soul to Keep**

**(Rated T)**

It was no fault of his own that John Watson became the target of a demon. The man had always lived a good life, the people around him, however, were a different story. He had always been on the edge of the demon's awareness, flitting around just out of sight. One soul exchange in the middle of a seedy pub changed all that

* * *

"You want your wife back." The demon sneered at the scraggly looking blonde woman. The state of her sobriety was questionable, though she appeared to be better off than anyone else in the pub. "And you are attempting to sell your soul for such a request...how dull. Unfortunately for you, your soul is worthless. Goodbye, Harriet Watson."

He turned away from the blonde, annoyed that his time had been wasted so poorly.

"Wait!" She called, and the demon rolled his eyes, turning back to her. "What about family? I have...I have a brother. He's a good bloke. A soldier..."

"He would have to be willing to agree to this pact." Sherlock responded, his voice betraying nothing. "Do you believe he would?"

"Yes. He would...that's Johnny..." Harriet nodded emphatically. "Please."

"I shall visit him." The demon replied. "But if he refuses, then it shall be your soul that shall be taken, and you will die in disgrace."

Harriet paled as the demon turned away from her, vanishing with a swirl of his long, black coat.

* * *

The last thing John Watson expected when he entered his small bedsit was company, but that was exactly what he got. A pale man with dark, inky curls was sprawled across his desk chair, looking as if he owned the place. He turned as John entered the room, pale eyes assessing his every move.

"John Watson." The man said by way of greeting.

"That's me." John steeled himself. "Now who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bedsit?"

The pale man smirked, standing up in what John assumed was an intimidating gesture. "I am known as Sherlock, and I am here about your sister."

"Oh god, what has she done now?" John groaned, making his way to his bed and sitting down, the springs squeaking in protest. "Drank all her money away? Are you part of a...a gang or something?"

"Not quite, no." Sherlock smirked, "Something much more sinister, I'm afraid. Your sister was _desperate_ to get her wife back."

"What do you mean, more sinister?" John asked. "What could be more sinister than a gang?"

"I am afraid your sister tried to sell her soul. It was worthless, so she offered yours in exchange." Sherlock walked towards John, towering over the sitting blond. "If you refuse, your sister's soul shall be destroyed."

John snorted, standing up. He was still significantly shorter than the man who claimed to be a demon, but he couldn't be bothered to care at the moment.

"You really want me to believe that you are a demon?" John asked, barely supressing a giggle. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

Sherlock's smirk widened, and John watched as his blue eyes swirled into a terrifying black, eclipsing the whites of his eyes. John's breathe caught in this throat, and in his attempted to escape, he fell backwards against the bed. The black eyed demon leaned over him once more, his grin looking wickeder than it had a few seconds earlier.

"Christ…" John swore, trying to crawl away from the imposing figure. Sherlock halted the movement with one hand, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jumper.

"Not even close." Sherlock said, blinking so the darkness in his eyes vanished back into the pale blue that John had already become familiar with. "Nearly the opposite of Christ, actually."

"So you're a…a…"

"A demon. Yes, I've already told you this. Do keep up."

John slapped Sherlock's hand away, annoyed as the demon chuckled in response before stepping away. He sat up, rubbing absentmindedly where Sherlock's hand had been.

"So, Harry…"

"It is either you, or her." Sherlock cut him off. "Her soul will be destroyed."

"And mine?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock paused, clearly choosing his words carefully before responding. "Your soul will not be destroyed, however, you will not be allowed to leave my realm."

"What does that mean?"

"Essentially, you shall be my slave. In return, your sister shall get her wife back, and her soul will be saved."

"She won't go to…hell, or wherever it is your realm is?"

The demon chuckled, clearly pleased with John's reactions. "No, she will, unless she is a complete idiot, go to heaven."

"Right. Right." John nodded, running a hand through his hair. "I accept."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock frowned, looking down at the ex-soldier. "You accept?"

"Yes, I accept." John replied, striving for a calm, collected tone. He was failing miserably. "I will give you my soul in exchange for my sister's."

"You will?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose, and John felt momentarily pleased at being able to surprise the demon. "Your sister was right. How very wonderful for her, not so much for you."

"Anything to keep my sister out of trouble." John's voice was world weary. "Do I need to do something to…er…seal the deal?"

Sherlock hummed, walking over to John once again. "We shake on it."

John raised his hand, offering it to the demon who grabbed it quickly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He pulled the shorter man closer to him, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"By agreeing to this contract, you agree to be in my servitude until I so choose to release you of your duties. Doing so protects your sister, Harriet Watson, as well as her wife, from my wrath."

"I…I agree." John said, speaking more to Sherlock's ear than anything else.

"The contract is finished." Sherlock said, "Now we shall seal it with a kiss."

Before John had any time to react, the demon shifted, pressing his lips against his roughly, his hand clasping the back of the human's neck to keep him in place. John's hands fisted in the collar of the demon's coat, clinging to him as they vanished in a puff of black smoke.

The next morning Harriet visited John's bedsit, unsurprised to find nothing but the faint whiff of sulphur and a small note written in spidery scrawl:

_He agreed_

* * *

**_A/N: No current plans on expanding this story line, but I can always be swayed if you all so desire! _**


	2. Slick

Day 2: Slime

**Slick**

**(Rated K+)**

In Sherlock's defence, the chemical had been created using only nontoxic substances, even though it was never intended for human consumption. Yes, John had told him on multiple occasions that his teakettle was strictly off limits for any experiment that Sherlock could dream up, but it was John's fault that he was missing so many beakers. The insufferable man had insisted on throwing several away when he discovered the presence of maggots in them.

The experiment had been conducted purely out of boredom. His bacteria samples were still incubating, and he had acquired a generous amount of banana slug slime from his previous case. The victim, as it so happened, had ingested copious amounts of the slime, numbing his body so he couldn't feel the pain. Pouring the slime into the teakettle, Sherlock combined it with several ingredients to thin it down and increase its potency. Pleased with his results, Sherlock placed the kettle back on the counter where he promptly forgot about it.

So really, Sherlock couldn't be blamed for what happened next. If John had spent more time studying what was in the kettle, he would have realised it wasn't water. If John was more observant, he would have noticed that the kettle was at least fifteen centimetres further away from the stove than it normally was. And really, how was Sherlock supposed to know that his little concoction would have such _interesting_ results?

* * *

After a long day of chasing criminals around London, all John Watson could think about doing was making a cup of tea. He flipped on the kettle, and after scrounging around in the refrigerator, finding a bit of milk to his joyful surprise, he began to prepare the mugs, kettle whistling not long after.

John carried his tea to the lounge, setting a mug in front of the nearly catatonic Consulting Detective. He rolled his eyes, moving to his favourite chair, settling in for a nice, quiet night of reading. The fact that he had consumed over half the mug of tea before he noticed the odd flavour and strange numbing sensation was a testament to how badly he needed his tea. A stronger testament, however, was the fact that he continued to drink it, not bothering to care that something was clearly off.

Cup of tea gone, John's bed looked more and more inviting. With a final, cursory glance at Sherlock, who was still locked in his Mind Palace, he made his way up the staircase, numbness and exhaustion flowing over him in waves with every step. He barely made it to his bed, collapsing on it without bothering to change, his legs hanging limply off the bed, his toes brushing the floor.

Sherlock's cup of tea lay forgotten and cooling, never moving from its position on the coffee table.

* * *

The next morning finds John in a bit of a predicament. He wakes up in what feels like a cold sweat, though for the life of him he can't remember having a nightmare that would cause a bodily reaction like that. He stumbled down the stairs, making his way to the bathroom quickly. Flipping on the light, John stared in the mirror. It looked as if every inch of his skin was coated in a thin layer of sweat. He swiped a hand over his face, horrified to discover that it wasn't sweat that was covering his body. It was slime.

"Sherlock!" John called hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off his face. He stripped his shirt off, disgusted with the way the fabric clung to his slick skin. "Sherlock, get your bloody arse in here!"

John could hear the sounds of Sherlock stirring, making his way from the lounge to the bathroom. The Detective looked grumpy about being distracted from his thoughts, though his frown didn't last very long, confusion quickly taking its place upon seeing John.

"John, you're all…is that a new cologne you're wearing?"

"What?" John turned away from the mirror, shooting a glare at him. "Could we focus on more important things, like the fact that my body is covered in…Christ, whatever this is, slime?"

"Unimportant." Sherlock replied, walking over to John and burying his nose in his neck. "That _smell…_John, why do you smell so good?"

"I don't smell anything, you idiot." John rolled his eyes, pushing him away. It took a lot more effort than normal, the substance on his body was incredibly sticky. The detective, for his part, looked properly chastised.

"I am not positive on how you ended up this way." Sherlock said, rubbing the fantastic smelling substance off his nose. "What have you consumed in the last few hours?"

"I had a cup of tea last night. Other than that, nothing." John answered, trying to rub the slime off of himself. "Why, do you think it was something that-"

John turned to find that the other man had vanished. He walked out of the bathroom, peeking into Sherlock's bedroom before walking towards the lounge, confused to find him inspecting a mug carefully, sniffing the contents as though they might be poisoned.

"What on earth are you doing?" John asked, crossing his arms only to uncross them again, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"John, the tea you brewed…did you empty out the kettle before you brewed it?"

"No." John answered, eyeing Sherlock. "Why? What the hell did you do to my teakettle?"

"A minor experiment with banana slug slime." Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, "Apparently it was stronger than I thought. Banana slugs have extremely strong slime, almost to the point of being adhesive. Not only that, but you seem to be releasing a pheromone, something else that you have in common with the slugs."

"You put _slug slime_ into my _tea_?" John growled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Technically you did." He replied, which seemed the wrong thing to say. One moment he was standing, and the next he was lying on the ground, an angry army doctor pinning him down.

"Sherlock Holmes, you fix this right now." John hissed.

"It should leave your system in a matter of hours." Sherlock replied, trying to unglue the doctor from him. "Once you excrete the chemical, you should go back to normal."

"Good." John said. "Because I don't want to be giving off pheromones and slime, thank you very much."

"The pheromones are a bit distracting." Sherlock admitted, attempting to breathe through his mouth. "And I shall be glad to get you back. You're distracting enough as it is."

Sherlock froze at the admission, and John glare went soft, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good to know. You're a bit distracting too, but I think you already knew that."

Before either of them could realise what a terrible idea it would be, they pressed their lips together, their kiss saying what words couldn't.

"John, I believe we are stuck together." Sherlock said, his lips connected with John's. John grinned, wishing that he could move his hand from where it was still clutched in Sherlock's shirt.

"Yeah, but I kind of like it this way." He replied, earning a smirk out of Sherlock. And even though their lips were stuck together, they managed to kiss each other again, and it was just as glorious the second time.


	3. Cavernous

Day #3: Lamia

**Cavernous **

**(Rated K+)**

Entering the cave hadn't been one of John's more brilliant ideas. He had been bored, the heat of the desert eclipsing his judgmental process, and the darkness of the cave looked inviting. He should have realised that an empty cave was too good to be true, especially in the middle of the Afghani wilderness, but his worries were focused on realistic threats, such as bandits, or other lost soldiers like himself. Certainly not what actually awaited him in the cavernous depths.

The cave was blissfully cool, sheltering him from the unrelenting sun. He wiped his forehead as he fell to the floor, even the sharp and uneven rock feeling incredibly comfortable. He leaned against the rough wall, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed.

"How interesting." A deep baritone voice echoed around the cave, startling John from his reverie. "I was just getting hungry, and while I normally eat children, a lost little soldier should do nicely…"

John opened his eyes, horrified to discover that he had wandered into the territory of a Lamia. From the waist up, he appeared to be a normal man, pale skin and curly black hair making his features appear sharper. Below his waist, however, was the long tail of a serpent. His scales gleamed in the darkness, a glint of danger to let John know how truly fucked he was.

"You don't want to eat me." John said slowly, watching at the Lamia's tail curled through the cave, blocking his only exit. "I'm…old, and weathered."

"You're hardly a day over twenty-eight." The Lamia scoffed. "And while that's older than my normal diet, you are hardly weathered. I do believe you would make a wonderful treat."

"No, really." John's voice took on a hint of desperation. "Nasty stuff, soldiers. We taste of…sand and…erm…sweat."

The Lamia chuckled, his tail brushing against John's leg. "You are very determined, young soldier. Tell me, what is your name?"

"John Watson, what's yours?" John said quickly, hoping to prolong his eventual fate.

"Sherlock…a pleasure." The Lamia replied. "Normally you humans are reduced to crying by this point, sobbing for your pathetic lives. It's refreshing to not have to deal with such histrionics."

"Not really my style." John smiled weakly. "As much as I would like to live, crying for it hardly seems to be the way to go."

"You would probably have been swallowed whole if you had chosen to go that route." Sherlock said, voice filled with boredom.

"Rough way to go." John said, trying to squirm away from the tail that was now wrapping around his right leg. He was largely unsuccessful, and only managed to amuse the Lamia even more.

"You are far more entertaining than other humans." Sherlock mused. "Perhaps I shall let you live for a few days before I eat you."

John smiled, clearly relieved. "That would be fantastic of you, thanks." He replied, unsure of how long he would have before the Lamia ate him.

Days would turn to weeks, and weeks to months before John realised that he was safe from the Lamia's hunger. The two would form an unlikely friendship, for every lonely monster needs a companion.

* * *

**A/N: Before this, I had no idea what a Lamia was. Learn something new every day, I suppose. Yeah, it's technically a female monster, but I don't give a frickle frackle. So yay! Snake bodies! Up next: Mermaids...**


	4. Ripple

Day #4: Merman

**Ripple**

**(Rated T)**

Sherlock was fourteen years old the first time he saw the human prince. He had been spending the day in shallow waters, enjoying the warmth on his tail, when he saw the boy strolling along the beach, blond hair glinting gold in the sun. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't seen other humans, for he had, and he had discovered that they were all dull. Really, he had no desire to talk with the boy, and he would have left without so much as a second thought if the boy hadn't been alone.

"Do they let you out on your own, or did you ditch them?" Sherlock asked when the prince had gotten to where Sherlock was lying. His tail was hidden under the water and sand, but his torso lay on the sand, small waves lapping at the skin on his back. The boy jumped when he spoke, dark blue eyes searching for the voice, even though it had clearly come from below him. Dark blue eyes met light grey, and the human boy smiled pleasantly.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" He asked politely.

"Your body guards. Do they let you out on your own, or did you ditch them?" Sherlock asked, smirking at the look of shock.

"I…I ditched them. How did you know that-"

"You were a prince?" Sherlock asked. "I didn't know, I saw. It's obvious; you hold yourself quite stiffly, even when you're in a relaxed environment. You've been taught to hold yourself that way since birth."

"I never said I was a prince." The blond said defensively.

"Again, it's obvious." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.

"That's incredible!" The boy burst out. Sherlock looked up at him, surprised to see that the prince wasn't teasing.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I do! That was brilliant…can you do it with anyone?" the prince asked excitedly.

"Obviously." Sherlock grinned. "My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Prince John." The blond said in reply, a matching grin on his face. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

The next time Sherlock saw John, they were sixteen, almost two years had passed since their first meeting. Mycroft had been insufferable, keeping him away from the shore, claiming that humans were cruel. Not that Sherlock believed John was capable of hurting him, but then again, John didn't know about his tail.

He had managed to get away from his annoying brother one afternoon, swimming in the shallows when he spied John strolling on the stand, his trousers short, showing off his tanned legs. Sherlock rode a small wave to the shore, a small grin on his face.

"John!" He called, pleased when the prince turned toward him, grinning back.

"I haven't seen you for years." John said with a shake of his head. "I tried to find you in the village, but you were nowhere to be found!"

"I'm not from your village." Sherlock admitted, his tail swirling in the water.

"Where are you from, then?" John asked, a frown of confusion on his face.

Sherlock splashed the water gently. It hardly mattered if John shunned him for his tail, so it wasn't as if he were nervous. Not at all.

"Sherlock..." The prince said, his confusion growing. "What was that?"

"I am a merman." Sherlock said stiffly.

John stared at him open-mouthed for a half minute. "Show me."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, surprised by his reaction. He had expected disgust, denial, or even anger. Not this blatant curiosity.

"Your tail. Can I see it?" John asked softly this time, as if afraid of offending the merman.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before swinging his tail out of the water. The scales were the same colour as his eyes, shimmering against the sun as if made of precious jewels.

"Gorgeous." John breathed, causing Sherlock to flush in pleasure. The blond looked at him as if asking to touch his tail, which Sherlock agreed to with a small nod.

Beaming, John reached down to stroke the scales, fingers dancing along the edges. He touched the soft webbing of Sherlock's fin, causing shivers of pleasure to race up the merman's spine.

"May I?" Sherlock asked John, gesturing to the man's legs. John barely noticed the gesture, so engrossed was he with the juncture of scale and webbing. He gave a curt nod however, so Sherlock began to explore.

He discovered that John was ticklish on his feet, squirming whenever Sherlock explored there. He drew small circles up his leg's, fascinated with the coarse hair that grew there. Sherlock spend a lot of time on what John identified as 'knees', feeling the complexities of the joint.

Sherlock's fingers trailed up the upper part of John's leg, the hair growing finer the farther up he went. He was curious about the junction between the two legs, but John seemed unwilling to show him, squirming away when Sherlock tried to push aside the ridiculous fabric that covered the area.

"Ah…probably shouldn't do that." John said, his face flushing red.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "I merely wished to see where your legs became conjoined."

"It's not exactly for the public eye." John explained, "A bit of a…erogenous zone."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded wisely. "Is that why your trousers have started to bulge in the front?"

John coughed, and the merman noted that the human was uncomfortable. Sherlock offered up a small smile, trying to let him know that there was nothing to be uncomfortable about. It was a long while before John regained the ability to speak.

* * *

The merman and the prince continued to meet each other weekly, sharing stories of family, friends and adventures, but it wasn't until they were both nineteen years old that John asked about the Song. It was a well-known legend in the human world that merpeople had the power to seduce the humans with their Song, dragging them to their deaths. John had been loath to bring such a subject up to his friend, but curiosity got the better of him.

"Is the Song real?" John asked, and Sherlock stiffened in surprise.

"Yes." He replied, watching the prince warily. "What do you know of it?"

"I've heard you are able to seduce humans with it…" John replied, looking away from Sherlock.

"Yes, that's very true. Occasionally, some of the idiotic members of my species will down a human. I've never done it, however."

"You've never sang the Song?" John asked.

"I've sang it, but not with the intention of drowning a human." Sherlock clarified.

"Sing it to me." John insisted, causing Sherlock to chuckle. "What?"

"You want me to seduce you, Prince John?" Sherlock asked, causing the man to flush.

"No, that's not…what I meant was…"

"Because I will, if you so desire."

"Sherlock!"

"But I have a stipulation."

John stopped protesting, eyeing Sherlock before crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"You would have to kiss me first." Sherlock stated simply.

John leaned over, pressing his lips against the merman's gently, not so much a kiss as a mere touch of lips. Sherlock smiled into it, however before pulling away, John falling against him when he lost his support. Scrambling upward quickly, the prince ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed.

"So…will you sing for me now?"

Sherlock smiled at John once again before opening his mouth and singing.


	5. Deep Into the Woods

Day #5: Centaurs

**Deep Into the Woods**

**(Rated K)**

Sherlock had been chasing a criminal through the forest. The murders had been interesting enough, but not enough to make a fleeing suspect enjoyable. The murderer knew the forest well, and he had managed to trip Sherlock up several times on roots, rocks and uneven ground. The whole thing was becoming rather tedious when a particularly large root caught hold of him, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

Cursing, Sherlock quickly got to his feet, looking around for the murderer, but he had already made his escape. The police weren't competent enough to catch the criminal on their own, especially in this environment.

"You should not be here." A voice said, causing the Consulting Detective to startle. He whipped around, his mind stuttering to a halt when he saw just what had been standing behind him.

It was impossible really, but there the creature was in all of his glory. The torso of a man with golden hair, sleek lines and hard muscle sweeping into the flank of a horse. A centaur.

"Why not?" Sherlock managed to choke out, his blue-grey eyes wide in surprise. "I am not hurting anything, merely attempting to catch a murderer."

"Yes, I saw him." The centaur mused. "However, the forest is not safe for you. Most centaur's a brutish, and would not hesitate to keep you for their own."

"What about you?" Sherlock asked, looking at the centaur with suspicion. "What makes you different?"

The centaur smiled at him, shaking his blond head. "I have rejected their ways, and they have rejected me from their society. I can assist you on your way back to your people."

Sherlock stared at the creature for a few moments before crossing his arms. "That sounds acceptable. What is your name?"

"I am called John." The centaur replied. "What do they call you, human?"

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as if this should be obvious information. "I am a Consulting Detective, and there is a murderer in your woods."

"All will be taken care of, Sherlock Holmes." John said solemnly. He lowered himself to the ground, allowing the human to climb up on his back. Once properly seated, John stood up again and began trotting off in the direction that Sherlock came from.

They made their way to the edge of the forest, John stopping as soon as he could see flashing lights from the police cars. He sank to the ground once more, letting Sherlock off his back.

"Here is where I leave you, Sherlock Holmes." John replied, and Sherlock watched the creature turn around and start heading back into the forest.

"Wait!" Sherlock called, and John turned around again to look at him. "Will I see you again?"

"I believe we shall." John said, and with a final smile, he vanished into the woods.

* * *

Sherlock was still upset that he never managed to catch the murderer. For an entire week he sulked, snapping at people that so much as spoke to him. When he went into the Met to demand a case, he was met with a surprise: the police had captured the murderer.

"How did you managed to catch him?" Sherlock demanded of Lestrade.

"We didn't actually. He was found tied up by the forest. Actually, there was a note for you pinned to his shirt."

Sherlock whipped around to see Lestrade holding out a note. He snatched up the paper, reading over the words quickly.

_To Sherlock Holmes,_

_I believe I caught your murderer._

_-John_

Sherlock smiled, feeling happier than he had all week, and when given a questioning look by Lestrade, he merely shrugged his shoulders. "It's best to make allies with all sorts."


	6. Do Unto Others

**A/N: Major Trigger Warnings in this chapter. If you cannot handle gore, please don't read. I was unsure of what they meant by 'true monster', so I went in this direction. Seriously, insanity and murder (Minor character death) **

* * *

Day #6: True Monster

**Do Unto Others**

**(Rating M)**

He was going to ask Mary to marry him. He had mentioned his intentions to Sherlock, and the man had been less-than-thrilled, not that John had expected anything more out of him. He had told him on multiple occasions that love was a weakness, and that marriage was folly, but John couldn't be half-arsed to care. Mary was beautiful, funny, and he was completely in love with her.

He planned to ask her while they were at dinner. She would meet him at 221B after work, and then John would mention that he had made reservations at a posh new restaurant nearby. They would have a good time, and during dessert, he would get down on one knee and pop the question. Really, it was fool proof.

Work lasted far too long, and John was a bundle of nerves, jumping each time his mobile chimed, even though he knew a majority of those texts were from Sherlock complaining about his boredom. When it was finally time for him to leave, John moved quickly, pulling on his coat and bounding for the door, sucking in a deep breath before starting on his way home. The day was beautiful, but he couldn't even begin to enjoy it. His fool proof proposal didn't seem so fool proof anymore, and he kept imagining the million ways that Mary could say no. By the time he arrived at Baker Street, John was considering postponing the proposal, at least until he was positive that she would say yes.

John ambled up the staircase, entering the lounge with a loud sigh.

"Ah, John." A deep baritone voice said, making him jump. John looked up at Sherlock, a wry grin on his face. Sherlock was wearing his purple shirt, one of John's favourites. In one hand he held a flannel, looking as if he had been busy cleaning up, though knowing Sherlock, he was probably testing the flammability of the microfibers.

"Hey, Sherlock." John replied, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer his question, choosing instead to study him, looking disappointed with what he saw.

"You're still choosing to go through with it."

"Pardon me?" John frowned in confusion. Sherlock merely sighed in response, moving towards John quicker than he thought possible. The brunet wrapped his left arm around his middle, twisting him so John's back was against his chest. His other arm came up, pressing the flannel against his mouth and nose. John gasped in shock, horrified to discover that the rag had been soaked in chloroform. John began to struggle against the vice-like hold, but Sherlock had the upper hand. Far too soon the chemical began to take hold, blackness swimming across his vision. Before he blacked out, he could feel himself being gently lowered to the ground, Sherlock murmuring in his ear.

"Shame. I wanted to spare you from this..."

* * *

When John regained consciousness, his head was pounding. He groaned, trying to get more comfortable in the hard wooden chair. As he shifted, however, he discovered that he was bound tightly, legs and arms unable to move.

"Good, you're awake." Sherlock's voice broke through his scattered thoughts. John opened his eyes slowly, not wanting to see what was in store for him. When he saw what Sherlock cooked up, he wished he had kept his eyes closed. Mary sat in front of him, bound in the same manner as John. The only difference was that she had a gag in, whereas he did not.

"What in the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock?" John asked, watching the terror on Mary's face.

"I told you that you shouldn't do this." Sherlock's voice came from behind him, and John was unable to turn his head to look at his flatmate. "But you didn't listen."

"What are you on about?" John snapped. Sherlock walked around the chair, twirling a small knife in his fingers.

"You. Getting _married. _It's ridiculous. You belong to _me_."

"No I don't, Sherlock." John replied. He should have thought his answer through, but he didn't believe Sherlock was capable of what he did next.

Sherlock gave John another disappointed look before burying the knife in Mary's arm. The gag muffled her scream, but John yelled loud enough for the both of them.

"What the bloody, badgering fuck?!" John shouted, staring at the bloody wound.

"Such _language_." Sherlock scolded, tugging the knife from Mary's arm. "This is punishment. You're being punished for thinking you're allowed to leave; her, for thinking she can take you."

"She wouldn't be 'taking' me." John growled, watching as the other man trailed the sharp point up Mary's arm, leaving a trail of now-drying blood. "We would be getting married, and you and I would remain friends."

"Unacceptable." Sherlock cut John off, digging the knife into Mary's collar bone, carving out a nonsense pattern.

"Stop this!" John growled. "Stop this right now!"

"Do you still plan on asking Mary to marry you?" Sherlock asked, pulling the knife away from what looked like a bloody mass of swirls.

"Of course."

"Then no." Sherlock sighed, putting down the small knife, grabbing a large kitchen knife instead.

"Sherlock, no-"

But Sherlock had already moved, slicing Mary's left ring finger off in one quick slice.

"Oh god." John groaned, unable to look away from the blood gushing from the trembling finger. "Sherlock, please stop this!"

"Not until you choose me." Sherlock's voice was calm as he took the knife and carved out a hunk of skin from Mary's back, perfectly preserving a small tattoo. He slapped the hunk of skin down on the table in front of him, giving it little more than a cursory glance. "It's not as if you have a choice, John. Really, all you are doing is prolonging her suffering."

"Please make it stop." John begged, tears beginning to roll down his face.

"Say it, John." Sherlock sang, walking behind Mary, his knife slicing a line as he went. "_Say it!"_

"You!" John gasped. "I choose you. Please stop hurting her!"

"If you insist." Sherlock said, shrugging before he slashed Mary's throat, cutting neatly through her carotid artery. Blood gushed from the cut, pouring down the woman's neck as she died.

"Mary!" John cried, struggling against his bonds. "You killed her! You killed her!"

"Of course I did." Sherlock replied. "You told me to stop hurting her. She will never be hurt again."

"You're a monster." John shook his head, struggling even as the ropes made his wrists bleed. "You killed her, and you don't regret it at all."

"Of course I don't." Sherlock said, walking over to John. He leaned over the man, brushing his blood spattered hand against the blond's cheek. "Now you're mine forever."


	7. Pest

**A/N: Here, have teeny-tiny zombie crack fic to make up for the angst of yesterdays (that I really enjoyed writing, even though it was totally gorey and stuff.)**

* * *

Day #7: Zombie

**Pest**

**(Rated K+)**

Going grocery store was a lot more difficult these days. It was recommended that you bring at least one gun, but John always brought two. Better to be prepared, really. Rifle strapped to his back, and his Sig tucked neatly in his pocket, John made his way out of the safety of 221B and into the street.

The Zombie Apocolypse wasn't as exciting as they made it in the movies. Sure, zombies were everywhere, but London didn't shut down. It kept on going as if they acquired a multitude of new pests. Really, the only thing that changed was that you had to carry some sort of gun on you at all times.

When the zombies first made their appearance, things got a bit chaotic. John and Sherlock had been in the morgue when one of the bodies came back to life. Sherlock had tried to examine the body, much to the dismay of John, who pulled the detective away before it could latch onto him. John had killed the zombie with a few quick blows to the head with the nearest blunt object. Sherlock had been in a strop for days after that.

The trip to Tesco's was entirely uneventful, but John faced a bit of trouble in the dairy aisle, shooting three zombies as he grabbed his milk. Grabbing a few other necessities, John made his way to the the checkout, chatting cheerfully with the cashier as she shot a zombie before taking his money.

When John arrived back at the flat, he was surprised to find that the door had been left open. He distinctly remembered closing it. Pulling out his Sig, John crept up the stairs, wondering if his mad flatmate was behind all this.

Sure enough, John discovered Sherlock, standing in the lounge, staring at a zombified Anderson. John raised his gun to shoot, but Sherlock stopped him with a glare.

"He's much improved this way. Quite docile, as well."

"That's great, but he's still a zombie." John replied, shaking his head. "We have to shoot him."

"Nonsense, John." Sherlock replied, now poking at Anderson in interest. "I would like to run tests on him. He's been here for twenty minutes and hasn't tried to bite me."

"We can't keep him here, Sherlock." John exclaimed. "He'll leave rotted body parts all over my newly cleaned floor."

"Hardly different than normal." Sherlock retorted, earning a sharp glare from John. "Oh, all right, I'll clean up after him."

"Fine." John sighed. "But if he bites us once, he leaves, got it?"

"Of course, John." Sherlock conceded, albeit with a smug grin.


	8. Jam

**A/N: A teeny-tiny (terrible) one for you today (cause honestly, I had no idea what to write.) Also Harpies are female monsters. That's cool though, cause writers can write whatever they want. **

* * *

Day #8: Harpy

**Jam**

**(Rated K)**

Food had been going missing at an increasingly steady rate, and it had John extremely confused. He was the only person that lived in his bedsit, and he knew he wasn't eating it, unless he was sleep eating, an idea he found alarming.

When an entire jar of his favourite jam went missing, however, he knew something was going on.

John wasn't sure what had chosen to make his flat a home; it was barely large enough for him, but he assumed it was something small like a pixie. When he discovered a Harpy in his bed, munching on leftovers, he was more than a little surprised. The harpy was, against everything he had ever heat, decidedly male. His wings were a deep, coal black, matching the curly hair atop his human head. A large, sharp beak rested where a normal human mouth and nose would be, looking both dangerous and delicate.

The harpy looked up when John entered, his eyes widening slightly in shock, though he covered it easily.

" I did not expect you home so early." The harpy stated matter-of-factly, his beak clicking on the words.

"I didn't expect you at all." John countered. "I thought a pixie was stealing my food."

"I am not stealing!" The harpy sounded affronted. "The food was left as a gift."

"I put it in my refrigerator!" he insisted.

"And that's where gifts go." The harpy replied. "Really, John, I thought you knew."

"I didn't know I had a harpy in my bedsit. How was I supposed to know that the refrigerator was your designated gift spot? And how do you know my name?" John asked.

"Really, don't be so obtuse." the harpy said rolling his eyes. "I live here, of course I know your name. And you would have realised that all my gifts of food go there if you had only paid attention."

"I live here, and I don't know your name." John said with a shake of his head.

"Sherlock." the harpy said. "Nice to finally meet you."


	9. Mint and Tea

Day #9: Plant Boy

**Mint and Tea**

**(Rated K)**

"You'll never have real friends because you're a freak!" Doug Anderson screeched at the prone body of a twelve year old Sherlock Holmes who was busy holding his nose to stop the blood flow that was a result of a hard punch from Anderson. "Maybe you should grow your own friend!"

Though the idea was suggested as a joke, judging by the howling laughter of Anderson's friends, it gave Sherlock a marvellous idea. A plant would make a good friend because it would never ask stupid questions, or punch him for deducing it, and it would always listen to his brilliant ideas.

As soon as Anderson and his idiot friends left, Sherlock jumped up, making his way to a Tesco's. After looking through all the seeds, Sherlock purchased a _camellia sinensis,_ a tea plant. Sherlock clutched the package close to his chest before also picking up a package of mint seeds as well. Grabbing a pot for his plant, he quickly buys his items and heads for home, planting the seeds, intermingling the mint and tea.

It does not take long for the plant to grow, ribbed mint mixed with smoother tea, and Sherlock loved every bit of it. The plant, which he decided to name John, was perfect in every way. He had always considered getting a skull to talk to, but this plant was so much better.

Everything had been going so well until he mentioned the existence of John to Anderson. Anderson had, of course, been surprised that he had made a friend, right up until Sherlock had mentioned that John was, in fact, a plant.

"Oh my god." Anderson wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "You're such a freak. Plant's aren't friends."

Sherlock had taken it harder than he expected. Usually taunts from Anderson were given a quick dismissal; his lack of intelligence making anything he said automatically incorrect. Taunts about John, however, had never occurred before, which was why he found himself twenty minutes later, clinging to John's pot, his salty tears falling into the soil below.

"Why can't you be real?" He cried, the leaves brushing against his face. "Why can't you be human?"

The next morning, John looked as unchanged as ever. Sherlock got dressed quickly, not even bothering to say goodbye like he normally did. School was a terrible bore, and his peers were no less stupid than usual. Sherlock had made his way to his room rather quickly, collapsing on the bed dramatically.

"You didn't say goodbye to me." A voice said, causing Sherlock to jump. He looked around, surprised to see a boy where he normally placed John. "Are you mad at me?"

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, frowning at the figure. He looked up from his seated position, and Sherlock could see even in the darkness that the boy looked upset.

"I'm John." He insisted.

"Impossible. John is a plant." Sherlock said, flicking on the lights, jumping at the sight of the boy. He was entirely green, but he didn't look as if he were made of leaves. More like the stalks of plants, actually, thick and smooth looking. His clothing, however, entirely consisted of leaves, mint and tea mingled together to perfectly form a pair of trousers and a shirt. Ivy wove up and down his arms and legs, attaching him to the pot that Sherlock had purchased.

"John." Sherlock said, stumbling over to the green boy who promptly smiled back at him, teeth a bright white amongst the green.

"Oh good. You're not mad." John sounded relieved, shifting from his curled up seated position to a more comfortable criss-crossed position.

"How are you alive?" Sherlock asked.

"I was alive before." John reminded Sherlock gently, bumping his knee against the others. "I can just speak now, which is really good, because I always wanted to talk back to you."

"That's what I meant." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You were just a plant before. Now you're a person. A person that's my age."

"You wanted me to be alive." John replied simply. "So I am alive."

Sherlock sucked in a breath before lunging at John, wrapping his thin arms around the green boy. He was surprisingly warm and soft, and when Sherlock buried his face into John's neck, he smelled like mint and tea.

"Don't worry, Sherlock." John soothed, rubbing a hand across Sherlock's back. "I'll never go anywhere ever again. You're my best friend, after all."


	10. Curiosity

**A/N: Several warnings for this chapter include: Johnlock smut, OctoJohn, PWP. Please do not read if any of this bothers you! (Next chapter should be much more your style if this one grosses you out, I promise you!)**

* * *

Day #10: Octoboy

**Curiosity**

**(Rated M)**

Sherlock had known that John was an Octopi about three weeks into their flat share. John, of course, didn't want Sherlock to know; that much was obvious. To the general public, being an Octopi was a shameful thing; the eight tentacles in place of two legs was considered an undesirable thing. Sherlock found them fascinating, but he had never been given the opportunity to study them as the Octopi didn't trust humans, and vice versa. Naturally, he was excited when he discovered that John's slight limp was an indicator that he was attempting to use the tentacles as makeshift legs, always hiding behind long, baggy trousers. He had yet to figure out how to approach the subject with John. Scaring away the doctor was not something he wanted to do. John was his only and best friend, and the idea of 221B empty of him was a lonely thought.

They had been living together for over two years now, and there was a familiarity with their routines, hectic as they were. John had Thursdays off from the clinic, and Sherlock usually spent his Thursdays in Bart's, using the lab equipment to perform experiments that John wouldn't allow in the flat. Molly's lack of any decent cadavers on that particular Thursday had a petulant Sherlock at home several hours earlier than normal.

Sherlock had flopped down in his usual spot on the sofa when he heard a soft splashing sound coming from the bathroom. Sherlock sat up immediately, his eyes alight with curiosity and anticipation. John believed Sherlock to be out of the flat, and he was currently taking a bath, which would indicate that he had his tentacles free. He had heard rumours of what the Octopi tentacles looked like, anywhere from drab grey to neon colours, but he had never seen them for himself. John, of course, didn't have to know that he had peeked. John didn't even know that he knew about him.

Sherlock padded down the hallway, his stocking feet making only the barest whisper of noises. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle as soon as he reached the door, carefully turning it. Unlocked. Sherlock smirked to himself, pushing the door open until he could peek in.

The bath was to the right of the door, pressed up against the wall and allowing the bather either the visual of the door or the window. Thankfully, John had chosen the latter, facing away from him. He was slumped down in the bath, muscles relaxed as steam rose from the bathwater. His eyes moved from the wet hair of his flatmate, sweeping across his broad, muscled chest, over the water that hid his pelvis, until he saw them.

A few of John's tentacles were hidden in the water, soaking up the abundant hydration, but a few were draped over the sides of the bathtub, one curling back and forth in a manner that reminded Sherlock of a cat's tail.

The tentacles matched the colour of John's eyes, a deep dark blue that instantly reminded Sherlock of safety. Where Sherlock stood, he could see that the colour grew lighter on the bottom side of the appendages, shifting to a light blue. He was surprised to see that the tentacles lacked suckers, but were entirely smooth.

Sherlock was so lost in his observations that he didn't noticed that he had moved into the bathroom completely. It wasn't until he heard a sharp gasp and saw the swift disappearance of the tentacles that he realised he had been found out.

"Sherlock!" John cried, causing the Consulting Detective to look at his face. Shock was the most prevalent emotion, but he could sense the anger and horror simmering below the surface. "You can't just…I mean, this was my _private _time and I-"

"You're worried about my reaction to your tentacles." Sherlock stated with a roll of his eyes, "You shouldn't be. I've known since you've moved in."

John gaped at him for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open. "You've known that long, and you didn't tell me?"

"You would have had an adverse reaction, much like now." Sherlock sighed. "I feared you would leave if you knew that I was aware you were Octopi. Your tentacles are quite…fascinating."

"Fascinating?" John rolled his eyes, one of his blue tentacles snaking out of the water. "They're….they're awful!"

"No they're not." Sherlock insisted, reaching a hand forward to stroke the appendage. John shuddered at the touch, his eyes falling closed at the contact. Though it hadn't been the outcome Sherlock had been expecting, it was certainly delightful.

"Sherlock…ah…" John tried to speak, his voice coming out rougher than normal. "You probably shouldn't…"

"Erogenous zone?" Sherlock asked, his fingers tracing light circles on the blue skin. It was surprisingly soft and silky, slicker than normal skin, but not disgustingly so.

"Ah-yeah" John replied, beginning to pull the tentacle away, jumping when Sherlock reached out and wrapped a hand around it, keeping it near. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock hummed by way of response, bringing the tentacle in for closer inspection. Flashing John a quick smirk, he licked a quick strip up the appendage, ripping a groan from John's throat.

"If you are uncomfortable, please let me know." Sherlock said, his hands slowly sliding down the tentacle. "If you want to stop-"

"Oh god, don't stop." John breathed, another tentacle appearing, snaking around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer. "Don't stop."

He obliged, continuing his ministrations to the first tentacle, a second and third quickly pushing off his coat, nimbly unbuttoning his dress shirt and trousers. Sherlock used his free hand to push his pants down, his cock bobbing free. John guided him towards the bathtub, tentacles dancing over his skin as he stepped into the warm water. They glided along his back and stomach, smoothing across his chest, and more agreeably, his arse.

Sherlock used his other hand to stroke a tentacle that was wrapping around his left leg, the one he had been lavishing with attention earlier securing his right, keeping his legs spread. The tentacles that had be on his arse now spread him open, allowing yet another to circle teasingly around his hole.

"Oh god, John." Sherlock gasped, attempting to squirm towards the light pressure. John chuckled softly, and Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him into a bruising kiss. The blond gasped against his lips, free tentacles wrapping around his torso.

"John." More pleading than anything else. Sherlock more felt than heard John's resulting moan, lips continuing to move against each other sloppily. Sherlock felt a sweep of John's tongue demanding entrance, and as soon as he opened his mouth, he felt the tentacle circling his hole begin to press in gently, causing Sherlock to arch his back, pulling John's upper body with him.

"Sherlock." John responded breathily, and Sherlock could feel the tentacle writhing inside him, stroking against his prostate in a way that made it impossible to hold back a whimper. "Sherlock, I need you inside me."

Before Sherlock could even begin to wonder how that could be possible, John had shifted himself around, tentacles squirming pleasantly as he lifted his arse up, revealing to Sherlock that he was very much human in the arse area. Sherlock spread John open, surprised to discover that he was already well prepared. He looked up at John curiously, met with a smirk that reminded him of himself.

"These tentacles have to be good for something, right?" John said nonchalantly, the tentacle inside Sherlock swiping across his prostate quickly, sending a shot of pleasure dancing up his spine.

"God, you're amazing." Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to John's spine before lining up with his hole, sliding in to the wet heat. John groaned, the tentacles not currently in use began wrapping around Sherlock, smoothing over his chest, back, and neck. They felt like a thousand tongues, licking in all the perfect spots in tandem. The sudden influx in pleasure caused Sherlock to buck, pulling identical moans from both of their lips.

"Sherlock." John's voice was low and rough, a sound that went straight to Sherlock's cock. "God, please fuck me."

He didn't need to be asked twice. Wrapping his arms around John, he began to move his hips, shuddering when he discovered that not only was he fucking John, but fucking himself on him as well. The pressure from both ends was almost too much, and he knew he wasn't going to last long.

One glance at John showed that he was experiencing a similar struggle, his skin flushed and ecstasy clear on his face. Sherlock watched as John opened his eyes, looking immediately at his face. Their gazes locked, and it was suddenly too much for Sherlock, the heat that had been building in his abdomen boiling over until he was filled with a white-hot bliss, spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes. He was distantly aware of John coming not too long afterword, his name on the other's lips.

When the haze cleared, Sherlock discovered he was lying on John's chest, the other having relaxed back into the tub once again. All eight tentacles were wrapped around him now, making him feel safe and secure. Sherlock looked up at John, a small smirk on his face.

"I am still curious about your species." Sherlock teased, drawing out a chuckle from the blond.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know later." John replied. "But first, we need to get clean."


	11. Nectar

Day #11: Insect boy

**Nectar**

**(Rated K)**

Sherlock had always been fascinated by bees. They were a magnificent creature, powerful to behold. Their single mindedness should have bored him, but it just made them all the more interesting. They worked endlessly to satisfy one bee, the queen. Day in and day out the served her, feeding her and making sure she procreated on a regular basis. Sherlock, who had been studying about them since he was just a boy, thought he knew everything there was to know about bees. Of course, he really couldn't have expected an anomaly like John, however. No one could.

The case at Baskerville had been tedious, really. If the people had just answered his questions, he wouldn't have had to sneak into the secured base. It hadn't been difficult to do, either. Mycroft was easy to pickpocket right before lunch time; the hunger distracted him so. With the use of his key card, he had complete access to the base. Everything seemed to be fairly standard, though he got a bit side-tracked in the genetic splicing department. Dr Stapleton, one of the main researchers on the base, told him about her goings on at the lab, describing the sort of insects and animal splicing they performed. Only one creature caught his interest, however, and he ignored the rest of her prattle in favour of visiting the bees.

There weren't a lot of them. Perhaps a few dozen, but no more. They had been testing to see if they could splice human DNA with that of the common honey bee. Over ninety percent of their test subjects died, and the rest didn't appear to be doing much better. Sherlock glanced over the bees, most of them were almost entirely bee, with a few human fingers, or perhaps an arm. There were a few that were half human, half bee, a gruesome sight to see.

"Failure." Dr Stapleton said, approaching from behind. "There were a few that looked healthy, but they've all died in some capacity or another. Last week a group of them tried to escape."

"You killed them?" Sherlock asked, his eyes glinting.

"Had to, I'm afraid." Dr Stapleton sounded regretful. "They may be created from honey bees, but their toxin is extremely deadly. A few sprays of bee killer did the trick."

"A shame." Sherlock said, shaking his head, turning away from the glassed enclosure, adjusting his scarf as he went.

* * *

The case was solved not long after his visit to Baskerville. It had turned out better than he had expected, though he didn't take kindly to being drugged.

Arriving home at his small flat on Baker Street, Sherlock immediately tosses his scarf and Belstaff on the floor, falling onto his chair ungracefully. He was preparing to enter a truly glorious sulk when he heard a faint buzzing sound coming from his coat. Standing from his chair, he walked over to the coat, unfolding the fabric until he reached a pocket. He reached in, carefully pulling out what at first appeared to be a sad little honey bee. It took a second for Sherlock to realise what he was looking at.

There, in his hand, was one of the bee/human hybrids they had been creating. Unlike the other, failed ones, this one looked to be in fairly decent health, though he was on the skinny side. The creature was mostly human in appearance, though a stinger was very obviously sticking out from his back end. The little bee had been properly clothed; a pair of jeans and a black and yellow striped jumper keeping him warm. Two tiny wings popped out of his back, complementing his compact muscles. The top of the bee's head was covered in soft, blond hair, two antennae peeking through.

The bee buzzed weakly in Sherlock's hand, two small arms clutching his stomach. Sherlock carried the small creature over to the kitchen table, setting him down before rummaging around his kitchen, pleased to discover that he had some leftover nectar from an experiment a few weeks previous. Sherlock dumped the nectar into a small bowl, carrying it over to the little bee.

The bee looked up at Sherlock, a mixture of hope and distrust flitting across his face. The bee apparently decided he had nothing to lose from drinking the nectar, however, and he began to drink, wings fluttering happily as he did so.

It wasn't long before the bee had gotten his fill, and he resumed studying Sherlock, seeming confused by his good manners.

"I'm Sherlock." He told the bee, and for a split second he felt foolish, until he saw the bee smile and buzz cheerfully in response. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

The bee buzzed quickly, his face eager looking. When Sherlock continued to look blank, he hummed softly, giving his stinger a small wiggle to express his point.

"How about I call you John." Sherlock suggested, lowering his hand to the table. The bee walked over to it, eyeing it for a second before clambering on. "It's simple, understated."

The bee looked up at him, a grin lighting up his face as he buzzed a confirmative. John it was.

"It is nice to meet you John." Sherlock chuckled. "I am looking for an assistant to help me out on cases. I do believe you would make the perfect candidate."

John agreed readily, his buzz a low hum of satisfaction.


	12. These Dying Embers

Day #12: Dragon/Reptile Boy

**These Dying Embers**

**(Rated T)**

No one was entirely sure why dragons kept humans around after they won the war. Human's, though edible, were not a dragon's ideal choice in meat. Humans were slower than dragons, and hardly strong enough to be a means of free labour, even though that's what they were normally used for. Each dragon was given a human as a slave at a young age. Most dragons kept the same slave over the course of the human's lifetimes; the more slaves they employed, the more prosperous they were. Though dragons lived longer than humans, a majority of them didn't go through more than three or four main slaves. Sherlock Holmes was not one of those dragons.

He had received his first human at the age of ten years old. The slave, a human name Greg, was promptly declared a complete bore, then given to his elder brother, Mycroft. Mycroft already had a slave, of course. A pretty girl that Mycroft had named Anthea had been serving him for seven years already, and Mycroft had stated on several occasions that Anthea could do the work of twenty slaves, and that he would never need a second one. Sherlock could tell Anthea was pleased when Greg came to work for Mycroft, however, though she never would have admitted it.

Sherlock's second slave, gifted to him at the age of thirteen, served him for about two weeks before he grew bored of him. Victor followed Sherlock around insentiently, even when he had demanded that the human should leave him alone. The breaking point had been when Victor hid in his master's room to see his human form. Sherlock had gotten so angry that he nearly scorched the terrified boy. Not that it was uncommon for slaves to see the human form of dragons, as both Anthea and Greg had seen his as well as Mycroft's, but Sherlock didn't trust this human to view his yet.

Several more slaves came and went, not a single one to Sherlock's liking. Most were deemed too stupid for the genius, others too disagreeable. It was on Sherlock's twenty-first birthday that the Holmes family decided that Sherlock should pick out a slave for himself.

* * *

"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock scoffed, his red tail swinging in agitation. "If you're forcing me to choose a slave, why can't I be in my dragon form?"

"You don't want to terrify the poor humans the first day, do you?" Mycroft drawled, not bothering to look at Sherlock's smirking face. Clearly that was _exactly_ what Sherlock wanted to do. It had been difficult enough to get Sherlock into half-dragon form, proud as he was of his sharp claws, red horns, and powerful tail. Sherlock's ultimate test would be which human was the least scared of him.

"Let's go, then." Sherlock huffed. "I don't want to be here all day."

The dragons strolled along the corridors, glancing through each door they passed. Most of the humans drew away in fear, causing Sherlock to scoff in disgust. It wasn't until they had reached the last corridor that they found anyone remotely interesting.

"A ward for dangerous humans?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the markings above the door to the corridor. "How on earth could _humans_ be dangerous?"

"A caged animal, no matter how small, can be very dangerous." Mycroft replied sombrely. "Do not take them lightly."

Sherlock snorted, a wisp of smoke curling from his nose dramatically. "I do believe I'll be fine. I've had plenty of dragons angry at me, and never have I come to harm." He said, pushing open the doors and walking inside, his brother trailing after him.

The humans in the dangerous ward were far less skittish than the rest of the facility. Even though the dangerous humans didn't show fear, they still reeked of it, causing Sherlock's nose to wrinkle in disgust. Just when he was about to give up, he saw the perfect specimen. The human didn't appear to be much at first glance. He was short and understated, blending into his surroundings as though camouflaged, even his blond hair fading into the drab walls. Upon second inspection, Sherlock realised that he was a former soldier in the human-dragon war, the way he held himself suggested that a dragon had wounded his shoulder, most likely a bite wound. Sherlock stopped in front of the cage, peering down at the odd little human, and the human did the most extraordinary thing: he stared back.

Sherlock's eyes widened when the dark blue gaze met his, looking distinctly unimpressed. Sherlock gave a little growl, and while he could see the humans in the nearby cages flinch, the soldier didn't move a muscle, just crossed his arms, his gaze asking _'is that the best you can do?'_

"This one." Sherlock said aloud, continuing to stare at the human whose brow was now furrowing in confusion. "I want this one."

"That one?" A handler asked, looking at Sherlock if he was insane. Perhaps he was. "That's Captain John Watson."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Sherlock asked, causing a grunt of indignation to come from the little human.

"Fascinating." Mycroft said, walking closer. "If you paid any attention to current events, you would realise that Captain John Watson was a lead instigator in the war. Why isn't he in a higher security prison?"

"He used to be." The handler sighed. "Escaped. We're the only facility that has any capabilities of holding him. He's not for sale."

"But I want him." Sherlock repeated, crossing his arms over his chest.

"He's a terrorist." Mycroft said. "The most dangerous human in the country, quite possibly the world."

"He's perfect." Sherlock grinned, turning back to the human who was currently watching the scene with bafflement. "I could use an assistant, John. What do you say?"

"Piss off." John replied, his voice rough from disuse. Sherlock's grin brightened, and he turned back to the handler, his blood red tail curling happily at the thought of John as his slave.

"Where do I sign?"

* * *

**A/N: Debating on continuing this fic. What say you?**

**EDIT 10/14: Bless all of you! I will be continuing this fic for sure! It will be under a new story called "These Dying Embers", and it should be posted after all these ficlets are done. I cannot tell you how much your comments and such mean to me.**


	13. Arachnophobia

His nickname had been given to him by someone who had never met him. That being said, it was oddly appropriate. The man, who died around three months later do to an unfortunate torturing accident, likened him to a spider, weaving a complex web of the criminal world, controlling each faction with precision and uncanny invisibility. The nickname caught on immediately, spreading through the criminal world like wildfire. Need help with a crime? Just give the Consulting Criminal a call. The Spider.

Anyone that had met him before the nickname was created would never have called him such a thing out of fear of offending him. Not that he would have been offended, of course. He was proud of who he was, of _what_ he was. Granted, the creator of the name _was_ murdered, but that was because he had become so _boring._ It couldn't be helped.

Day #13

**Arachnophobia**

**(Rated K+)**

He actually liked the nickname. It was enjoyable to watch as his clients eyes widened in surprise when they saw how literal it was. From the waist up he was fairly normal, at least as normal as one could be while running the criminal empire. His lower body was that of a giant spider, eight long legs that were around eight feet long. Most of his clients had arachnophobia too, a happy coincidence.

But not Sherlock Holmes, at least not yet. He hadn't met him in person yet, and even the least spider phobic people changed their minds after meeting him. After all, Sherlock's little doctor pet wasn't afraid of spiders, but even he had shuddered in horror at the sight of him. Sherlock would already be upset with him for strapping the doctor to semtex, the extra legs would only make the disgust grander.

"I brought a little getting to know you present." A deep baritone echoed from the pool, and he grinned. Show time.

Through an earpiece, he commanded Watson to enter the pool. The look on Sherlock's face when he saw his dear doctor was absolutely _delicious_, but all the talking got boring. Really, it was so dull winding Sherlock up through other people, and he was _dying_ to make his appearance.

"I gave you my number…thought you might call…" He called softly, his legs brushing the floor with every step. Sherlock's eyes widened when he rounded the corner, though he struggled to hide his reaction.

"Jim Moriarty…hi!"


	14. Vanished

**A/N: Trigger Warning: Major character death, suicide, angst, the whole shebang. I'm really sorry, this was going to be a happy little fic, but then angst happened, and I've been pretty good at controlling it so far...*hides***

* * *

Day #14: Ghost

**Vanished**

**(Rated T)**

John had tried, he really did. After Sherlock's suicide, he attended every therapist meeting he could, sometimes going in twice a week. He listened to everything she said, trying to take her advice, but it never got any better. Once a week he visited Sherlock's grave, staring at the sleek black stone as if trying to make sense of everything. It never got any better.

It had been three years. Three long years without Sherlock, without cases, without hope. It had been three years since John had written in his blog, a small post with a sad video attached.

_"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_

He couldn't take it anymore. Mycroft was working on proving Sherlock innocent in the whole Richard Brook scandal, but it wasn't enough. He could take the whispers on the street, the glares and glances of pity from strangers. He was tired of living without Sherlock, tired of never having the chance to tell him how he felt. It was just too hard to continue living. John had tried, but he was done trying.

The entire plan was simple, write a goodbye note, then put a bullet through his brain. The perfect place for the note was his blog. It hasn't been updated in over a year, so the likelyhood of someone seeing it right away was minimal. They would find it around the same time they found his body. Just a sad little man with a sad little life.

He planned it accordingly. It would be on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, a final testament to the man he loved. The morning of his death date, he would spread plastic across the floor, try to keep the mess to a minimum. He didn't want to burden someone else because he didn't choose a cleaner death.

The day came, and John was the happiest he had been in three years. Today was the day he would get to see Sherlock again, and the thought send a thrill of joy up his spine. God, he missed that mad flatmate of his. But he wouldn't for long. Only a few more hours now.

John whistled cheerfully as he laid down the plastic tarp, making sure he covered every possible surface. He then began polishing his Browning, making sure it shone. When that was done, John walked over to his laptop, pulling up his blog. He typed out a short message, posting it immediately.

_I have missed you, old friend. See you soon._

John smiled at the bright screen before standing and walking to the middle of the room. He twirled the gun in his hand before putting the barrel in his mouth. Sucking in a final breath, John's finger tightened on the trigger, then darkness.

* * *

The loud pounding on the door woke John, and with a groan, he sat up, rubbing his forehead blearily. The banging got louder, and John got to his feet, walking towards the door. He was trying to sleep, and they were ruining his dreams. He had almost reached the door when it flew open, banging against the wall. There in the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes in all his glory, looking at something behind John in horror.

"Sherlock!" John cried, walking towards the man in disbelief. "You're...you're alive!"

"John..." Sherlock whispered, and John was shocked to discover his eyes full of tears.

"Sherlock, it's alright. Everything is alright now..." He began, annoyed when Sherlock walked around him.

No. _Through him._

"What the hell?" John cursed softly, turning around to look at Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was on the ground, forehead pressed against someone else's. Tears were streaming freely from his eyes, landing in big splashes against the other man's cheeks. The face of the prone man was recognizable, but what captured his attention was the jumper.

His jumper.

"Oh god." John felt sick as he looked at himself, horrified to discover that he was translucent. "Sherlock...oh god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock couldn't hear John. He couldn't hear his dead friend beg for his forgiveness, just as he was begging forgiveness from John. He couldn't see the invisible hand attempt to brush away his fringe, comforting him as he smoothed the blood away from the face of the body in front of him.

They were both so alone.


	15. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**A/N: Triggers include: Rape/Non-con elements and Johnlock smut. Basically PWP, but that's to be expected from Incubi/Succubi stories. **

* * *

Day #15: Incubus

**To Sleep, Perchance to Dream**

**(Rated M)**

Sherlock had never met a human quite like John. Other humans were completely uninteresting, useful only when he needed sustenance. Their dreams were boring, and they all reacted the same when Sherlock arrived, struggling uselessly at his strong grip. He could tell John would be different, if only he could get a chance to consume him.

The human was plagued by nightmares. They were terrible enough that he woke constantly, preventing Sherlock from getting a taste of the delicious fear. John was so interesting that he began following him around during the day, something he would never do for anyone else. Even the most mundane activity was interesting when John was involved, and Sherlock couldn't get enough.

He had discovered around a month into observing John that music soothed his nightmares. He had conjured multiple instruments, but John's favourite was the violin. Sherlock had played for hours, keeping John asleep longer than he ever had before. He could have used those moments of interrupted sleep to take what he wanted, but it seemed almost cheap, and he loathed the idea of leaving John so soon. Not that he had to leave John immediately, but prolonged exposure would be dangerous.

For who, he wasn't sure.

* * *

Night came quickly, leaving Sherlock with a warm feeling of excitement. Tonight was the night, he was sure of it. He stayed in the shadows, waiting for John to go to bed. He didn't have to wait long, the man was clearly exhausted.

Sherlock watched hungrily as John stripped off his shirt and trousers, not bothering to put on pajama bottoms as he crawled into bed. John, he was pleased to note, was wearing his bright red pants, a personal favourite of Sherlock's.

John shifted around a bit, settling with on leg slung over the covers, an arm draped across his stomach. For someone that struggled with nightmares, he fell asleep rather quickly.

Sherlock waited until John had entered REM cycle before making a move. He slunk across the room, smoothing his arms across John's chest, guiding his arms up and over his head. With deliberately slow movements, he straddled the doctor, brushing his groin against John's flaccid cock. Sherlock smirked, feeling John begin to perk up in interest.

Sherlock stretched his body over the doctors, his hands pinning John's to the headboard, hips rocking slowly, encouraging the arousal. He leaned his head down, his nose brushing along John's jaw as he aimed for his ear.

"So beautiful, John." Sherlock breathed into his ear. "I must have you."

The words sent a visible shiver down John's spine, and Sherlock grinned as the man tried to arch up into him, a small groan escaping when he was unable to move more than a few inches.

"Now now, it's nice to see you so eager." Sherlock hummed, nipping on John's earlobe. "But you're trying to rush this. Behave." With a particularly sharp bite, Sherlock moved, licking a stripe down John's neck.

John's skin tasted better than he ever expected. He could taste the nightmares; acidic and powerful. He could taste his hopes; sweet and bitter, like sugary coffee. His fears, his strengths; even his past lovers had a fine taste because he left them satisfied.

Sherlock continued moving down, pressing heated kisses on the muscled chest and taut stomach in front of him, his hands holding John captive at the upper arms. Sherlock reveled in the squirming man beneath him, sucking a bruise just below his belly button before pushing those gorgeous red pants away. John let out a small cry at the cool air on his free cock, his hips canting upward to find friction.

"tsk tsk." Sherlock admonished, moving both of his hands to hold down John's hips. "What did I tell you to do?"

"Behave." John murmured sleepily, and Sherlock sucked another bruise against John's inner thigh as a reward.

"Good." Sherlock praised, his hand wrapping around the base of John's cock, giving it a quick pump before swiping a thumb over the head. "Very good."

With no further warning, Sherlock took John in his mouth, moaning at the amazing taste. If Sherlock thought John's skin was delicious, his cock was a thousand times better. He had never tasted a human with so many complexities before, a regular feast for his tongue.

The Incubus let out a small hum before beginning to move, his head bobbing up and down the length of John's cock, hand stroking where his mouth couldn't reach. John was keening beneath him, trying to move, but Sherlock's free hand held the man steady, not allowing him to set the tempo.

As Sherlock ran his tongue up the bottom of John's shaft, he knew he wouldn't last long, the though sending sad disappointment washing through him. Normally he was in and out, taking his nourishment as quickly as possible before vanishing again, but he found that he didn't want this to end. He savoured the taste at his glans, stronger and headier than everywhere else.

It only took a few more pumps with his hand before John was coming, spilling himself into Sherlock's very hungry mouth. The incubus swallowed as much as he could, licking up any stray drops before tucking a satisfied looking John back into his pants.

John had been...better than he had expected, Sherlock mused as he stood up, striding back into the shadows. The man was tough, resilient, and he decided that he didn't have to give up the human quite so fast. After all, there were more idiotic humans that survived multiple feedings from Incubi and succubi. Really, it wasn't expecting too much to plan another feeding from John. And next time, Sherlock smirked as he left the room, maybe he would get to fuck him.


	16. Sebben Crudele

Day #16: Vampire

**Sebben Crudele**

**(Rated T)**

It didn't take much for Sherlock to convince the silver-haired human to follow him home. The man had been sitting at the bar for over three hours, clearly drowning his sorrows with a pint when the vampire sat down next to him.

"Personal trainer or boss?" He asked, sitting down next to the man.

"Sorry, what?" The human asked in confusion. Sherlock sighed deeply, as if he felt the man was being deliberately stupid.

"Your wife. Did she leave you for her personal trainer, or her boss?" Sherlock repeated.

"Her boss." The silver-haired man looked shocked. "Sorry, how did you know that?"

"I didn't know, I saw." Sherlock said stiffly. The conversation was quickly becoming tedious, and Sherlock hadn't had anything to drink in two weeks, but he ignored the burn, hoping for an easy meal. "Simple, really. You're comfortable here, everyone knows you and they know how you take your drink. It's not as though you come here while you're happy, however. They're used to seeing you sad, they would have shown at least a little concern if you had shown up looking down. You fiddle with your wedding ring quite a bit; unhappy marriage, most likely a cheating wife. Something happened today to cause you to drink more, however. You were doing well mentally after chugging down two pints of beer, but after the third one, you started to get sloppy. So you're used to drinking, but not used to that much in such a short period of time. This is something that is related to what normally causes your marriage problems, but worse. Wife left you. Simple." Sherlock takes a breath of air, looking bored.

"Wow, that was a bit...well, creepy, to be honest." The human said with a shake of his head. "The name is Greg Lestrade, it's nice to meet you."

Sherlock chuckled, taking the human's hand in his own and giving it a quick shake. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure."

Sherlock could smell the intrigue in the human's blood, and he knew that playing a long game of cat-and-mouse would bore the both of them. Pushing himself away from the bar, Sherlock gave Lestrade a long, hard look before striding away. It only took two seconds before the human began to follow.

"Can I ask where we're going?" Lestrade asked when he caught up to Sherlock, his breath only slightly elevated from trying to keep up with the taller vampire. Sherlock smirked, glancing at him briefly.

"Not important." Sherlock replied. Lestrade made a noise of annoyance, but made no further protest as they walked along the deserted streets, turning down an alley. It was obvious from looking at the man that he was someone who craved danger. The thought shot a wave of nostalgia through Sherlock, mixed with a strange hint of longing.

Maybe Greg Lestrade wasn't a good idea as a potential slave; after all, Sherlock would have difficulties drinking from the human if he constantly reminded him of his last slave.

The vampire quickly shut his straying thoughts down, focusing on the rich smell of blood that was oh so willingly following him down the tiny alleys. The copper smell mixed nicely with a hint of scotch and pinecones; not an unusual smell, but definitely a break from the mundane. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath before turning on Lestrade, pinning him against the dirty brick wall of the alley.

"What are you-" Lestrade's panicked voice tapered off as he looked up into Sherlock's eyes. His sharp eyes, slightly glassy from the effects of the alcohol, completely unfocused for a few seconds before snapping back into reality. Sherlock smiled gently at him.

"You're safe." The vampire began, his voice deep, calm, and reassuring. "You are always safe with me as long as you serve me well. Your master is thirsty now; be a good slave and offer me a drink."

Lestrade nodded slowly, the glassiness in his eyes having nothing to do with the alcohol now. "Of course, master." He breathed, baring his neck.

Sherlock made a pleased sound before bending low, inhaling the clean scent of copper and pinecones. The smell of scotch was an interesting addition, and completely natural. Lestrade had been drinking beer of course, but the overwhelming smell of alcohol resided primarily in his mouth. The muted scotch smell permeated everything, a welcome kick to blood that would be overly sweet otherwise.

Sherlock licked Lestrade's skin before biting down, making a satisfied noise as blood welled up through the holes to greet him. This one was so plaint, he would make a nice slave.

So immersed in his task, Sherlock failed to notice the figure moving toward him at lightening speeds. Before he had a chance to even suck, Sherlock was knocked away from his slave, landing in a heap on the ground. Letting out a feral snarl, he jumped to his feet, prepared to attack whoever stopped him from feasting.

"You bit him!" The achingly familiar voice said angrily. "Now he's going to turn, you idiot."

Sherlock quickly regained his composure, fixing a mask of cool indifference on his face. "Not if you let me drink. The venom hasn't had a chance to spread yet."

"No." The blond said, glaring daggers at the brunet. The effect of this was ruined by Lestrade flopping against his shoulder, the venom that spread through his veins working as a relaxant.

"Then you could do it." Sherlock suggested next, a humourless smirk forming on his lips.

"I don't drink human blood!" The blond vampire reminded him unnecessarily. As if Sherlock could forget.

"Your third option is to allow him to transform, wasting a perfectly good slave." Sherlock replied.

"Third option it is then." The blond growled, swinging Lestrade over his shoulder. Sherlock watched the blond dart off, Lestrade over his shoulder, his silver hair waving in the wind. He waited until the pair vanished before turning to punch the brick wall next to him, leaving a sizable crack.

"John…I miss you."

* * *

**A/N: This will be continued as well under the name of the chapter title "Sebben Crudele." I was plotting this out before the challenge...it's not cheating is it?**


	17. Headless

Day #17: Dullahan

**Headless**

**(Rated T)**

The town of Sleepy Hollow was infamous for its ghost stories, but none was so prominent than its Headless Horseman. The idea of the headless spirit made Sherlock scoff, and no matter how many times he reminded the idiot townsfolk that the spirit they were talking about was called a Dullahan, and hardly original, they refused to listen. The Horseman was rumoured to be a long dead soldier who had lost his head through cannon fire. According to legend, the Horseman still wandered the battlefield, looking for his head.

The whole thing was complete rubbish in Sherlock Holmes' opinion. The town and its inhabitants were so superstitious that their brains were addled from it. If it weren't for the delicious murders that their sheriff seemed unable to solve, he would have left long ago, living without the stupidity of the common person always dragging down his thought processes.

It didn't help that one of the girls had fixated on him, either. Miss Molly Hooper, daughter of the richest man in town, Alexander Hooper, was to be wed. Mr Hooper wanted his daughter to marry Gregory Lestrade, sheriff of Sleepy Hollow, but Miss Hooper seemed to be torn between Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had, of course, encouraged her to look in the direction of Lestrade, but she wouldn't listen. It wasn't as if he hated the woman, after all, she was the most tolerable person in the town, but Sherlock didn't want to be married. That didn't stop her from inviting him to the coming of age party Mr Hooper was throwing for Miss Hooper.

Lestrade had plans to propose to Miss Hooper that very night, something that pleased Sherlock greatly. Once she was wed, perhaps the townsfolk would quit trying to marry him off. He would attend the party to encourage the marriage between the two, then leave early to spend quality time in front of his fireplace with a cup of tea and a good book.

* * *

The party itself was awful. Too many people crowded in a room, large as it may be, was an overall unpleasant experience. Sherlock had arrived early, and was immediately presented with a glass of wine, which he took gratefully, sipping on it slowly. He tried to stay away from the chatting people, staying pressed against a wall and glaring at anyone who thought it would be a good idea to come over and talk to him. Miss Hooper was the only one brave enough to approach him, and after talking with her for five minutes, he was pleased that Lestrade would be the one proposing to her. She was the least idiotic person in the town, and Lestrade was the least annoying. They would make a good pair.

It was only an hour into the party that Lestrade made his move, loudly declaring that he was vying for Miss Hooper's hand. A few of the younger men in the town also declared their intentions, but were immediately shot down. With no one else to compete against him, Miss Hooper agreed happily, and Sherlock raised a glass to Lestrade when he looked over at him triumphantly, a smug grin on his own lips. With Miss Hooper engaged, and nothing else to worry about, he took his leave, vanishing into the night.

* * *

The fog had come early that evening and clouds covered the moon, which only served to annoy Sherlock. The party had been horridly hot, and Sherlock was pleased to get out into the cool evening air. The fog, however, made it difficult to see what was in front of him, and he tripped on several branches and holes as he made his way back to his small house. He was so preoccupied with watching the road that he didn't notice the figure following him. The whinny was what finally caught his attention, and Sherlock looked up to discover a figure on a black horse following him, any features impossible to make out in the darkness. Sherlock stood still, glaring at the man on the horse.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock snapped. The figure chuckled softly by way of answer, and Sherlock was about to bite out an insult when the clouds parted, a thin beam of moonlight illuminating the scene.

The figure on the horse appeared to be of short build, though muscular. His clothes outdated, an old military uniform donned his body, bright red coat standing out amongst the black fur of his steed. The most memorable thing about the figure was his missing head.

Sherlock stumbled back in horror, falling to the leaf-strewn ground with a dull thud.

"You're...you're the Headless Horseman!" Sherlock choked out, scrambling weakly to his feet.

"Oh no." The Horseman disagreed. "I have a head, I just forgot to put it on." The Horseman grabbed what at first glance appeared to be hay tucked under his arm, but soon revealed to be an admittedly handsome head, blond hair flopping into dark blue eyes when he placed the head atop his shoulders.

Sherlock sucked in a small breath, straightening himself to full height. "What do you want? I have nothing to offer you."

"Oh, but you do." The Horseman replied softly. "For many years now, I have wanted companionship. You want to be rid of this town. I do believe we make an excellent pair."

"No." Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I refuse."

"Pity." The Horseman said. "You don't have a choice."

Sherlock's eyes widened as the Horseman kicked his horse, aiming the beast towards him. Sherlock spun on his heels, running towards his small house, knowing that he would never make it. He could never outrun an average horse, and this horse was far from average…

It felt like he had only started running when a hand grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling him upwards. Sherlock automatically put his arms around the body in front of him, blond hair shining brilliantly in the moonlight.

"Don't worry, you'll like it where we're going." The Horseman said. "Lots of mysteries for you to solve. I'm John, by the way."

"You're British." Sherlock commented lamely, the red coat rough on his hands.

"I am." John confirmed. "But the Revolutionary War is long over, and I've taken a liking to an American since then."

Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath as they rode through the mist, wondering if he would ever see the little town of Sleepy Hollow again.

* * *

**A/N: Dullahan is a headless horseman. (Irish Mythology) And the most famous being, of course, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Sherlock Holmes...meet Ichabod Crane.**


	18. Gentle Stepping Stone

Day #18: Satyr

**Gentle Stepping Stone**

**(Rated T)**

Sherlock had been living with a Satyr for nearly a year now. Not that it bothered him; he had never been overly racist, though his family certainly was. John kept his legs and horns hidden whenever Mycroft came over, a self-preservation tactic more than anything. Sherlock didn't understand why John bothered; who cared if Mycroft approved of his flatmate? He certainly didn't. John was perfect exactly as he was.

John kept his family in the dark about Sherlock as well. The Satyr claimed that his family wasn't racist, but that there were other reasons why they shouldn't be told about his very human flatmate.

Really, everything was going so well, Sherlock couldn't have been more pleased. That's why he was so surprised when John invited him home to meet his family.

Most Satyr's chose to live together in apartment complexes designed for them. They were safer there, far from the judgmental eyes of humans. John was one of few Satyr's that lived in human London, and though he wore long jeans to cover his legs and hair grown out to hide horns, it was still fairly obvious that John was not human.

The invitation was given the night before the occasion, delivered in the most faux-casual manner. John had been sitting on the sofa, watching some ridiculous crime drama that Sherlock found tedious. He had been sitting next to the Satyr, mumbling deductions under his breath, causing him to chuckle.

"My family is having a reunion tomorrow." John had said, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. "They make good food, so it might be good to fatten you up."

Sherlock had hummed distractedly, watching as the obvious television killer tried to play innocent. "Oh come on! He's practically told you that he's the murderer! Just look at his cuff links!"

"You're not listening to me, are you?" John had asked in amusement.

"Of course I am." He had argued. "You're inviting me to your family's house for dinner, a nice invitation that I accept."

John had laughed, shaking his head at Sherlock's antics, which is how Sherlock found himself at the Watson household the very next evening.

* * *

Sherlock was happy to note that the Watson family wasn't racist, just as John had claimed. This was a very good thing, as John's mother had placed him in between a grandmother and an uncle. John sat across from him, the significant others of his neighbours across the table from them. Perhaps he was placed there because he was John's guest. Maybe it was because everyone else had significant others. Sherlock wasn't positive. He couldn't begin to deduce without knowing the basic customs of Satyrs, and to do that, he would have to speak Greek.

"Θα ήθελα να καλωσορίσω τον σύντροφο του Ιωάννη, Σέρλοκ Χολμς" John's mother said by way of welcome, the rest of the family throwing Sherlock bright smiles.

"Sherlock δεν είναι η αδελφή μου. Είναι φίλος και συγκατοίκου μου" John said hastily, waving his hands around in an embarrassed gesture.

"Δεν το σύντροφό σας ακόμα, εννοείς. Όλοι γνωρίζουμε πώς αισθάνεστε γι 'αυτόν." Harry responded slyly, and John goes an interesting shade of red.

"Sherlock δεν ενδιαφέρεται για μένα ..." John gritted his teeth, jumping slightly when he was interrupted by Sherlock himself.

"I do realise that you are talking about me." Sherlock said sharply. "Just because I can't understand you…"

"They aren't saying anything important." John cut in, "Trust me. It's best if you don't know."

"We're just discussing when you two are going to get together." Harry said, smirking as John's already red face flushed darker. "Soon, I hope. The sexual tension is eating us alive."

"Sherlock, I-"

"No worries, John." Sherlock said before turning to Harry. "Soon, I would hope. John still hasn't figured out how I feel for him. Though really, I can't make myself any clearer."

"How you…what?" John spluttered, causing a small smile to form on his face.

"How I feel about you." Sherlock repeated himself. "It's rather obvious. Why do you think so many people already assume us to be a couple?"

John had nothing to say to that, for which Sherlock was very glad. They could figure their relationship later, for now, it was time to eat.

* * *

**A/N: Whoops, I cheated. Day #18 was supposed to be sheep, and Day #20 was supposed to be Satyrs, but I really couldn't think of a big enough difference between sheep and satyrs, so I changed satyr day to giant day. I hope you don't mind.**

**Also, I don't know Greek. At all. I'm sure that's pretty obvious if you speak even the tiniest hint of Greek. The sentences were formed using Google translate, so if you speak Greek...pretend that Satyr's only speak horrifically poor sentences in Greek. It's a thing now. Some people can write a fantastic Satyr fic...I am not one of those people...**

**TRANSLATIONS:**

**-Θα ήθελα να καλωσορίσων σύντροφο του Ιωάννη, Σέρλοκ Χολμς (We would like to welcome John's mate, Sherlock Holmes)**

**-Sherlock δεν είναι η αδελφή μου. Είναι φίλος και συγκατοίκου μου (Sherlock is not my mate. He's my friend and flatmate.)**

**-Δεν το σύντροφό σας ακόμα, εννοείς. Όλοι γνωρίζουμε πώς αισθάνεστε γι 'αυτόν. (Not your mate yet, you mean. We all know how you feel about him.)**

**-Sherlock δεν ενδιαφέρεται για μένα ... (Sherlock isn't interested in me...)**


	19. REDACTED

Day #19: Alien

**[REDACTED]**

**(Rated T)**

The last thing John Watson remembered was the hot, sunny desert of Afghanistan; the sounds of gunfire background noise to the shouts of commanding officers. He remembered the hot pierce of a bullet, his entire left shoulder feeling like it was on fire. The last thing John saw before the blackness enveloped him was the panicked face of Private Bill Murray, his lips moving frantically as he reassured John that he was going to be alright, that everything would be okay. That's why when John woke up on a cold metal table in the middle of a sterile white room, he was more than a little confused.

At first he assumed he was in a hospital, but he realised that he was completely starkers, save for a small piece of linen covering his modesty. He opened his eyes, lifting his head to glance down at his bare chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw raw, raised flesh, and he turned his head to look at it. The starburst pattern was a familiar enough one, but not one he was accustom to on his own shoulder. He had seen scars like this on other people before, the lasting reminder of a gunshot wound.

Everything came rushing back at once. The fighting, the gunshot, the pain…but then how did he get here, and how was it possible to have a scar that looked to be about a year old already?

John let out a small groan of annoyance, letting his head fall back against the cool steel table and closing his eyes.

"Subject 6745, homo sapiens." A cool voice said nearby, and John's eyes opened just in time to see a group of five people standing in front of what John assumed to be a wall, but now was open space that lead to a hallway. He watched as a blank, white wall slid smoothly and silently back into place, completely hiding the hallway from view once more. John couldn't even see a seam where the door was, just smooth expanse.

"Er…hello, you must be the…ah…doctors?" John asked, his voice rough from disuse. He cleared his throat as he looked at the people garbed in long robes, each a different colour. They were all tall and pale, dark hair cascading from their heads. High cheekbones and strong jaw's suggested that they all had a common family member, though John wasn't positive that they _were_ all related. There were similarities, sure, but something about the group indicated that they were merely colleagues, not related at all.

"Patient 6745 has awoken." One of the 'doctors' said, a woman in the back. She was reading what appeared to be a medical chart. "He suffers no long term effects from the localized rebinding. His cognitive processes are nearly at full working order, though some sections of his brain are still warming up from the three day sleep."

"Three days?" John asked, sitting up. The 'doctors' continued to ignore him, chatting about his prognosis.

"To whom does he belong?" A male asked, dark hair sweeping across his eyes.

"Me." Another doctor swept in, his robes a lovely purple. His hair was curly, not unlike the other doctors, but his eyes made him stand out. While the other 'doctors' had average blue eyes, this man had shining blue-green. They were like small galaxies, colours constantly changing and shifting. The other 'doctors' seemed to hold this one in great respect, and they hastily backed away from him, heads bent low in what appeared to be reverence. "Homo sapiens, goes by the name of John Watson. He is a medical doctor on earth, intelligent among his race, and considerably brave. I have been watching him for a long time."

John's jaw dropped slightly when the 'doctor' said his name, then he shook himself, smiling ruefully at his forgetfulness. Of course the 'doctor' would know his name.

"Right. Thanks for all the help, but I think I should be fine now." John said, turning so his legs dangled off the table. Immediately, the light overhead his table that had been shining a nice, yellow went bright red. Startled John looked up, trying to figure out why the light had changed colours.

"That is your vital monitor." Purple, as John began to think of him, explained patiently. "It has lost the blood flow in your legs. If you could be so kind as to resume your position on the bed."

"Hardly a bed." John muttered, swinging his legs back up onto the metal slab, earning a small grin from Purple. The light shifted from red, to green, then finally settling back into its soft yellow once more. He wasn't entirely sure how a light could measure all his vital signs, but everyone seemed to be a bit nutty, and it appeared that the best option would be to go with the flow.

"Leave us." Purple said, and the other 'doctors' raised their eyebrows. They did not question it, but merely bowed with a murmured reply that John could of sworn was "Yes, your majesty" before leaving the room. Purple turned back to him, eyeing him with obvious interest. "You didn't take good care of yourself."

"Pardon?" John spluttered slightly.

"I loathe repeating myself, John." Purple admonished, moving toward him slowly. "You were supposed to take good care of yourself. You didn't. You went off to war, and got shot."

"The shooting wasn't really my fault, thanks." John retorted, crossing his arms over his chest, annoyed at the new stiffness in his shoulder.

"But going off to war is." Purple responded, now circling the table. "You are mine, and you allowed yourself to get hurt. That is not allowed."

"Yours?" John frowned, keeping an eye on the dark haired man circling him. "I don't belong to you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go home."

"No." Purple snapped. "You've done a terrible job taking care of yourself. So I'll have to do it for you. That's why I brought you aboard my ship. We are going to _my _home."

"Ship?" John laughed. "This isn't a ship. This is a…I don't bloody know what it is, but I certainly don't feel waves or…or whatever."

"Not your traditional human ship." Purple rolled his eyes. "I do not come from your planet."

"Oh?" John rolled his eyes. "You come from somewhere else? Some sort of alien then. What does this have to do with me?"

"I am the prince of the planet Holmes." Purple smirked. "Twenty years ago I was exploring your galaxy when I discovered your planet. I was drawn to the small island you call Great Britain, where I discovered you. I decided then that you would be mine."

"You…what?"

"My name is Prince Sherlock." Purple said, ignoring John's annoyance. "Welcome home, John."


	20. Footprints

**A/N: Mystrade fic, and my very first one. Also, this fic is really...not good. I don't write giant fics, and I'm not as familiar with Mystrade as I would like to be, so probably just skip this one. Yeah, thanks! **

* * *

Day #20: Giant

**Footprints**

**(Rated K+)**

Greg Lestrade knew that he should have stayed clear of the forest. There were rumours that these woods were inhabited by giants, and like the brave idiot he was, he went searching for them. Some said that giants were friendly, others claimed that they were ferocious beasts. He was merely curious as to what the truth was. He wasn't even positive if giants were real, or entirely fictitious, and he was determined to find out.

Greg started off feeling confident in his journey. The forest didn't seem all that dense, light filtered through the leaves, and he had plenty of energy to continue his quest. By afternoon, however, the trees had grown thicker, blocking out any light and making it seem more like evening. The air grew chillier with his every step, and it wasn't long before Greg felt completely lost.

For three days he travelled, growing more exhausted as each hour passed. He had just about given up hope when he saw it.

At first he was convinced it was a large crater, odd in shape, but when he climbed to the top of a tree to get a better look, he discovered what it truly was. It was a giant footprint.

Greg scrambled down from the tree just in time to feel the earth rumble beneath his feet. He looked around, startled to find someone towering over him.

"And what is this?" The giant, a man of over 50 feet said, his voice betraying no emotions. "A little human wandering into our midst?"

"You're not going to eat me, are you?" Greg blurted out, his body quaking.

"Heavens, no." The giant looked disgusted, "You all taste atrocious. You're not allowed to leave, however. We don't want it getting out where our settlement is."

"I don't even know where I am." Greg said, letting out a startled squeak as the giant scooped him up, bringing him to eye level.

"Well, we can't have you lost, either. Dead humans makes for nasty business." The giant drawled, and he began to stroll away, Greg clinging tightly to his fingers.

"Er…my name is Greg. Greg Lestrade!" Greg said by way of greeting, and the giant raised one eyebrow at him.

"My name is Mycroft. Welcome to the forest."


	21. Mutt

Day #21: Canine

**Mutt**

**(Rated K)**

It had been years after Sherlock Holmes had requested a pet that he finally reviewed one. When he asked at the tender age of four for a puppy, he had been hoping for an animal that was intelligent and willing to tag along on his adventures. As he got older, he realised that no one, human or animal, wished to join him on adventures, and they were all dumb anyway. But on Sherlock's ninth birthday, he was given a puppy of his very own.

Sherlock didn't want a puppy anymore. He had discovered long ago that he was much better off alone, so when he opened a box to see his new pet, he was more than a little disappointed. The puppy had a human face, sandy blond hair nearly falling to his eyes. Two floppy ears framed his face, and Sherlock could see the end of a tail wagging in joy, fur the same colour as his hair.

The idea of a hybrid puppy intrigued and disgusted him. Sure, they were rare, and only the richest of people could afford them, but that also meant that this puppy would ask him stupid questions instead of barking incessantly.

"I don't want a puppy." Sherlock responded, looking away from the creature. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the tail stop wagging, drooping at his cruel words. "Take him back."

"We can't." Mummy said with a small frown. "He's yours, and you will take care of him."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, turning back to his puppy. "What's your name?"

"Aren't you supposed to name me?" The puppy asked nervously, fiddling with his collar.

"Yes, but I don't want to. Surely you had a name before?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"John." The puppy said. "I was named John."

"John." Sherlock replied, tasting the name on his tongue. Ordinary. Boring. "Fine. Follow me, I'll show you your room."

"My room?" John asked as he quickly fell in step with the boy. "I have a room?"

"Obviously." Sherlock sighed. "You'll be sleeping in my room. My parents have probably already set up a bed for you in there."

"Oh." John replied. "Thank you very much."

Sure enough, Sherlock's room now had a brand new plush bed for John. It was round and luxurious looking, and Sherlock could see John's tail wagging at the sight of it, though he pretended not to notice. It sat on the floor in the corner of the room nearest Sherlock's bed, nestled between his dresser and his desk he used for experiments.

"Did they make you sleep on the floor, or was it a wooden bed?" Sherlock asked the hybrid, who froze at his question.

"What?" John asked, looking startled.

"At the pound. Did they make you sleep on the floor, or did you have a wooden bed." Sherlock repeated.

"The…uh, floor." John stammered. "How did you-"

"It's quite obvious." Sherlock interrupted eagerly, pleased to show off. "You looked at the bed with overzealous glee. Perhaps you had slept on beds before, however there is a stiffness to your shoulders that suggests otherwise. There is also faint rashes on your neck that indicate long periods resting against rough surfaces."

John's mouth fell open, and Sherlock wondered if he would yell at him, or just ignore him. The idea of John not wanting to be his puppy anymore was a sad one, and Sherlock was surprised by the sudden desire to take back all his words and try again.

"That was amazing." John said, startling Sherlock out of his nervous thoughts. "You just…read all that off of me?"

"I…did, yes." Sherlock replied, obviously confused.

"And you can do that with anyone?" John asked eagerly.

"Of course."

"Brilliant."

Perhaps Sherlock had misjudged his puppy. After all, someone who called him _amazing_ and _brilliant_ couldn't be completely idiot, could they?

* * *

John and Sherlock quickly became close, the hybrid following the boy everywhere. Sherlock decided that John was probably the only other non-stupid person in the entire world, and how very lucky he was to find him. His only worry, however, was that Jeff Hope would try and take John away. Jeff Hope was the local bully, and he always stole things from Sherlock. That's not to say that Sherlock never got his things back, but taking John would hurt the most.

They ran into the bully about a week after Sherlock's birthday. He had just finished telling John about how he solved the case of the mysterious disappearing football, (they had left it by a creek, and it had floated down stream) and John was telling Sherlock how _smart_ and _incredible _he was when they heard that dreaded voice.

"Oi! It's the freak! And what does he have here? You couldn't get a friend, so your mummy had to buy one?" Hope sneered. Sherlock opened his mouth to bite back a retort when John stormed forward, growling softly.

"Sherlock is amazing, and I'm his friend because I want to be!"

"So loyal." Hope rolled his eyes, stepping around the golden-haired hybrid. "But mutts usually are, aren't they. Too bad he can't stop me from doing this."

Hope cocked his arm, gearing up for a punch. Really, Sherlock was used to it by now, his eyes falling closed as he prepared for the inevitable hit. But it never came. Instead, a high pitched yelping pierced the air, and Sherlock opened his eyes just in time to catch John biting Hope's ankle, anger clear in his eyes.

"Don't you dare hit my friend!" John growled as he let go, and Hope shot him a terrified look before limping away quickly, cursing about posh rich kids and their stupid pets. But Sherlock didn't care what Hope said, he had eyes only for John.

"You protected me." Sherlock said, his eyes wide.

"Friends protect people." John replied, giving Sherlock a small smile. Sherlock bounded forward, wrapping his skinny arms around John's shoulders tightly.

"You're my best friend." He said into John's neck. "Don't you ever forget it."

"You're my best friend too." John replied, his own arms curling around Sherlock. "Friends till the very end."


End file.
